


heady and delicate

by krakens



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-07 17:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14676252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krakens/pseuds/krakens
Summary: Yasha's got commitment issues. Beau's pretty good at no strings attached.





	1. heady and delicate

 

Yasha sticks around, for a little while.

It’s an indulgence that she knows she shouldn’t take. Even when the Stormlord has no divine mandate for her, she tries not to set down roots. Roots only make it harder to leave when she inevitably must.

But Molly’s new travelling party reminds her too much of the circus. A bunch of rag-tag, badly damaged, terribly fascinating people all hell-bent on survival. A delicate friendship forged in that primal desire. She likes that; she yearns for that.

It’s a disservice to her, to stay. But even more than that, it’s a disservice to Molly, who unironically called her his oldest friend last night. It’s a disservice to Jester, as unused to abandonment as she is. In a small way it’s even a disservice to Beau, who likes her more than any reasonable person should. Or would.

Still. She’s sort of glad it’s Beau who catches her.

“You can say bye, you know,” Beau says just as Yasha’s drawing her cloak up around her hair to step out into the rain and darkness. The inn tavern is closed for the evening, stools neatly stacked up on the oaken bar. Yasha didn’t see Beau because she’s behind the counter, elbow-deep in the fine liquor cabinet. She glances over her shoulder at Yasha as she rummages, leaning to the side just enough to make eye contact through the stacked furniture. “Not like we could stop you from going or anything.”

The right words don’t come to her tongue quickly enough. Beau returns her attention to the bottles of alcohol. Maybe she thinks Yasha will just leave, ignore her entirely. There’s part of her that wants to. But she’s not cruel, and if she snubbed Beau in this moment it wouldn’t be because of indifference. Just… the right words. They’re never there.

Yasha sighs, and Beau’s hands still.

“I don’t…” Yasha begins. There’s a yawning gap of silence that crawls under Yasha’s skin, makes her cheeks flush warm as she struggles. Eventually, Beau moves a bottle, and the clinking of glass on glass spurs Yasha to speak. “I don’t like goodbyes,” she says.

She doesn’t know why the truth always has to be so hard, when you’ve got to say it out loud.

“Nobody does,” Beau says. Even though Yasha can’t see her face she can imagine the way her brow knits together. Yasha’s never been adept at deciphering other people’s expressions, but this is a tell of Beau’s. She’s not fibbing, exactly, but she knows what she’s saying isn’t the truth.

“Well…” Yasha begins, but she doesn’t have anything else to say.

“You coming back?” Beau asks. She decides on a bottle and pulls it from the shelf. After a moment of further rustling, Yasha hears some coins clatter on the bar, but it hardly sounds like enough to cover the cost of the bottle.

“Here?” She can’t help the skepticism in her voice. The establishment itself is nice, but this town is nothing special.

“To us,” Beau says.

Yasha doesn’t deal in promises anymore. The one she made to the Stormlord supersedes any others, so there’s no point in making new ones. She shrugs.

Beau hums a sound of acknowledgment. There’s an edge to it that’s not quite anger. Maybe – disappointment? It’s not self-centered of her to think it might be. She knows Beau likes her, because she’s been told as much. But it still feels a little vain, somehow.

“Drink for the road?” Beau asks, holding the bottle out. The sound of rain on the clay-shingled roof has quieted from the torrent that woke her from her sleep to a soft patter she can nearly ignore.

“Alright,” she says, and crosses the room. Beau pulls a chair down. Yasha starts to do the same, but hesitates. Six chairs at the table. Across the table is far enough to be inconvenient and awkward. Directly next to her would be awkward for another reason. And the fact that she has to pick up a chair and set it down for herself makes every action seem more deliberate than it would be otherwise.

It takes her too long. Beau pulls a second chair down – directly next to her. Yasha sits.

Beau didn’t pick up cups while she was looting the bar, and she hands the entire bottle to Yasha after pulling the cork out with her teeth. It feels a little showy, like she’s doing it for an audience. But whatever prowess she means to demonstrate – good with her _teeth_ …? Strong teeth? – is lost on Yasha.

She drinks.

It’s wine. Good wine, she thinks. She’s not cultured enough to know the difference, but the taste is inoffensive and almost sweet. It doesn’t burn in her throat; it leaves her feeling flushed and warm.

“It’s good,” Yasha says.

“Yeah,” Beau agrees, without having tasted it. Yasha offers her the bottle.

Beau drinks. Beau drinks a lot.

“Do you like wine?” Yasha asks, though barely with the cadence of a question.

“No,” Beau says, and sets the bottle down on the table between them.

She doesn’t know what else to say, so she doesn’t say anything. Neither does Beau, for a little while. For once, the silence doesn’t wheedle at her senses like scratchy, ill-fitting clothes. For once she doesn’t mind the silence at all.

Yasha picks up the bottle and drinks again. She tries to think of words that describe the flavor of wine, but all she can come up with is _grapey_ and _rancid_.

“Where do you go?” Beau asks while Yasha’s in the middle of her third swig.

“I’ve got… things to do,” Yasha says once she swallows. “Business.”

“Business that can’t wait?” Beau asks. Yasha shakes her head no. “Business that we could help with?”

That’s a no too. Yasha bears her burdens alone. That’s not required, not by the Stormlord. But she’s always done it alone, and she doesn’t want to let anyone help her. She’s selfish. He’s her savior, and she’s his agent. That’s hers and no-one else’s.

But… it’s the first time anyone’s offered.

“You want to?” Yasha asks.

“Maybe,” Beau says, a little aggressively, punctuated by a shrug. “We’ve all got shit.”

Bitter, Yasha thinks. Wine can be bitter.

“Sometimes having extra hands helps,” Beau continues.

“I have enough hands,” Yasha says.

Beau sets her jaw. “Riiight,” she drawls out. Yasha’s feeling tipsy, and she hasn’t had half as much of the wine as Beau has. It must be hitting her.

“Look.” Yasha turns the bottle on the table between her hands. “It’s not personal. Or… if it is, it’s personal ‘cause of me. Not you guys.” She glances at Beau, tries to gauge if she’s being believed. “Not you.”

“You have commitment issues,” Beau says. Yasha can’t look at her anymore. “I get it.”

“That’s not…” Yasha begins, but it’s not a point worth fighting.

“You know, I’m pretty good at the whole no-strings-attached thing,” Beau continues, tilting her chair back off its legs as she considers Yasha. “It’s kind of the only thing I’m good at. If that’s more your style.”

Yasha doesn’t say anything. The truth is, for all she’s careful, she isn’t a prude. No strings attached is exactly her style; she only ever engages with people she knows she’ll never see again. And if she believed Beau, she might take her up on her offer.

But she doesn’t believe her. Even if Beau thinks she was telling the truth, Yasha knows. Attachment is inevitable, and a good travelling party is worth a lot more than a one-night stand.

For what it’s worth, Beau seems to take this as the brush-off that it is and doesn’t push the topic. Yasha knew from experience that she’d give up eventually. Nobody is worth the effort that Yasha makes herself, romantically. They can move past it now, the weird nascent tension that Beau hadn’t wanted to let go.

That’s a good thing.

“Drink?” Beau asks, and Yasha hands her the bottle. Beau’s fingers brush against the back of her hand. Her own fingers twitch reflexively, wanting to reach out, wanting to grasp.

From outside, there’s a low rumble of distant thunder.

“I gotta go,” Yasha says, standing up.

“Yeah,” Beau says. “See you ‘round.”

Against her better judgement, Yasha lingers by the door. She wants to say something – anything. But there’s nothing that won’t sound like some kind of promise to her own ear, and she doesn’t have any idea what goes on in Beau’s head. Better not give her ideas.

So she leaves without saying goodbye.


	2. days apart

Yasha’s gone a long time.

Beau tries not to feel bitter over it. Honestly, she should only be surprised that the other five are still here. None of them are really team players. But it’s hard not to feel sore for Yasha’s absence when they’re constantly getting their asses handed to them.

For example? Right now. She’s just been tossed into a brick wall by a clay golem, she’s covered in silty residue from head to toe, and she’s pretty sure at least three of her ribs are broken. It’s hard to silence the little voice in her head that says _this wouldn’t be happening if Yasha were here_.

No matter what they do to the thing, it seems to resit their attacks. Every time it knocks Beau down, she pulls herself back up and punches it again, but it’s useless. Her fists do nothing. Eventually she is so wearied by the fight that she has to resort to avoiding blows. What seems like a decade later, Molly finally manages to dismember the golem, and it collapses into a pile of dust.

“That fuckin’ sucked,” Beau announces when the thing finally goes down, spitting out a mouthful of blood and clay.

“I need a bath,” Molly agrees, helping her to her feet.

“Yeah,” she says, because she’s got golem in some hard to reach places herself. Unhappily for them, they’re staying in a shitty little town with nothing in the way of culture, let alone a bath house.

But the weather has at least turned warm again, and the group  settles for finding a little lake on the outskirts of town. Beau walks directly into it, still wearing her clothes, and dunks her head underwater for as long as she can bear it.

When she surfaces again, the rest of the group has struck up a conversation. Molly’s speaking at a loud volume that might pass as polite, since Caleb and Nott are still yards away on dry land.

“… some magical weapons, at least,” he’s saying. “That’s the second one we’ve run into, and Beau’s staff doesn’t do anything.”

“Beau,” Jester says, swimming right up to her so they’re barely inches apart. Unlike Beau, she is fully naked. “We need to get you a _magic_ stick.”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Beau says, splashing water in Jester’s face so she’ll go away. She doesn’t. “You know what’d be better?”

“Monster not made outta mud?” Fjord suggests.

“Extra hands.”

“You’d look so cool with, like, six hands,” Jester agrees, eyes glancing skyward momentarily. Beau can see the cogs of her mind turning and suspects she has an illustration to look forward to later tonight.

“You mean hire someone else on?” Fjord asks.

“A heavy hitter,” Beau says. “Maybe someone who can heal.”

“What,” Jester complains, drawing the word out into several discrete syllables. “Why?”

“Because I almost died today?” Beau says.

“You’re being melodramatic,” Molly says, which is big talk from someone who’s floating on his back in a backwoods pond like he’s lounging on the world’s fanciest chaise. Also naked. Beau’s seen too many naked tieflings today.

“I agree with Beauregard,” Caleb comments from afar.

“Thank you, Caleb,” she says, wading back that direction. Her clothes are still caked thick with residue, and she plops down on the grassy shore to pull her shoes off. Fjord (mercifully still clothed) also joins them.

“To create a golem requires much power,” Caleb says, more to Fjord than the rest of them. “To send two after the same target suggests either a very powerful or a very vengeful foe.”

Beau glances at him, sidelong, but he’s hard to read. There’s no tell on his face that she can see. Nott’s an easier target, the corners of her mouth twisted downwards in concern.

“Extra hands,” Fjord repeats.

“Something to consider,” Beau says, staring at the sky.

* * *

It takes Yasha longer to catch up with the group than it took her to dispatch the heretics. Her new friends have fallen off her radar entirely. She’s no slouch when it comes to tracking, so she suspects they’re laying low intentionally.

She finally catches up with them in Bladegarden, uncomfortably close to the Xhorhasian border and unfortunately full of Crownsguard. Instead of entering the city to meet them at their inn, she stays in the woods and waits. Patience has always been her virtue.

After they leave town, she follows their wagon at a distance, a quiet stalker. She’s not exactly sure why she doesn’t just approach, but it seems best to wait for her moment. They’re noisy travelers, though, even if she is a silent one, and they soon draw unwelcome attention; a mating pair of young wyverns that Yasha had notice on her way into town.

It’s almost a shame to kill the beasts. She’s always had some respect for sky-faring predators, hawks and dragons alike. She envies them the skill of flight.

But an angry animal is an angry animal, and there’s no reasoning with them. She makes her entrance by driving her blade into the male wyvern’s wing, and is greeted by a loud and appreciative whoop from Mollymauk.

Together the group makes short work of the wyverns, and as the battle dies down and Jester sets about healing their wounded, something becomes clear to Yasha. She’d halfway noticed, when she was following the wagon, but hoped she’d made some mistake in perception.

But, no.

Beau’s not here.

Everyone else is accounted for. Even Frumpkin, who hops up on Yasha’s shoulder the very first chance he gets. She gently headbuts her little friend in greeting, but there isn’t too much time for hellos.

“We should keep moving,” she reminds the group as soon as everyone is patched up. They aren’t that far outside of town, and the Crownsguard might come to investigate the kerfuffle.

Jester insists on taking some teeth from the wyverns as trophies, or to sell. Yasha can’t bring herself to desecrate the corpses, and so it’s slow work for Jester and Fjord to pry the teeth loose. Yasha’s getting antsy by the time they finally pack up and start moving. Mostly because of the Crownsguard, but also…

Nobody’s mentioned Beau’s absence. Did she just tire of traveling with the party? Would the others tell Yasha, if something worse had happened? Why can’t she just ask?

She can’t bring herself to ask.

For most of the day, she’s silent. She watches the skies for trouble, and trails behind the rest of the group by a few wagon-lengths. When they stop to make camp for the evening, she offers the group a pair of foxes she snared yesterday and has been carrying over her shoulder; Jester cooks them into a crude kind of stew that doesn’t taste very good.

Yasha offers to take first watch, and Caleb settles in next to her. She almost tells him she doesn’t need a partner; he looks like he hasn’t slept in days, and probably needs it more than she does. But she ends up not saying anything. Caleb doesn’t, either, for a time.

Finally:

“Beauregard,” he says, nearly causing her to jump out of her skin for the suddenness of it. “Is at her monastery, training.”

“Oh,” Yasha says.

“They are teaching her how to look into souls, she says.” Caleb doesn’t seem particularly convinced of this, which is funny for a wizard, Yasha thinks.

“That’s nice,” is what she says.

“We may pick her up next time we’re in Zadash,” he says. Yasha doesn’t respond, and the conversation is effectively over.

She sleeps uneasily that night. She can’t account for it.

* * *

Training is hard, and Dairon doesn’t go easy on Beau.

Her body aches every morning when she wakes up, but in a way that feels like accomplishment and not defeat. She’s excelerating quickly, she’s exceeding expectations. She’s also bored out of her mind. There’s a reason she left the Reserve in the first place and turned to petty smuggling to make ends meet. Beau is not a creature built for routine.

The Library is full of creatures of routine. It is an institution based entirely around a carefully maintained routine. They don’t like Beau there; she’s a little too wild for them. She supposes that’s why Zeenoth sounds more resigned than irritated when he comes to her quarters one afternoon and says, in a long-suffering way: “You’ve got visitors.”

She’s expecting her friends when she heads downstairs. What she sees instead is a retinue of six conspicously well-dressed humans who could… _almost_ pass as relatives of hers.

“Beau,” one of them says in a low aside as she waves hello. It’s clearly Jester. “It’s us!”

She could ask them why they bothered to do this, or why they thought it was a good idea in the first place. Expositor Dairon knows Beau’s family, anyways, and she’s pretty sure Zeenoth wasn’t fooled by the illusion either.

“Fancy new trick,” she says instead.

“I imagine you’ve learned a few of your own,” Caleb says.

“We’re going shopping in the Tri-Spire,” one of the others continues. She can’t immediately mark him by his voice, but she assumes it’s Fjord and not a long-lost cousin of hers.

“Sounds fun,” she says, and follows them out of the Library.

The walk to the Silken Terrace is nice this time of afternoon, with the shade cast from the tall buildings to shield them from the sun. Jester happily chats the entire way there about everything Beau has missed out on. She mostly tunes her out.

Book smarts might not be her strong suit, but Beau can count, and there are seven of them now. The little girl must be Nott, and Jester’s already made herself known. Beau supposes the taller woman might be a stranger, but she takes her chances and nudges her in the ribs with her elbow.

“Hey,” she says. “Been awhile.”

The woman is silent for a second, but it’s such an awkward silence that it’s just as familiar as her voice would be.

“Yes,” Yasha finally agrees. “A little while.”

“Good to see you,” Beau says, even though she hasn’t, really.

“Yes,” Yasha says, a quicker response this time. “It is.”


End file.
